So Pretty It Hurts

where in the world she’d come from, I realized it was one of the two girls who’d assisted Sandy at dinner. Her long curly red hair, which had been pinned into a tight bun earlier, now flew in long strands from her head like wind socks. It occurred to me that she’d probably been marooned here because of the snow and had been given the room to stay in.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, taking a few steps closer to her. “Are you sick?”

“She won’t wake up,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve got to help me.”

“Who?” I asked. “Who won’t wake up?” It felt as if I was in some crazy dream sequence, and for a split second I wondered if she might be sleepwalking.

“Devon Barr,” she said plaintively. “I keep trying to wake her, but she just lies there in bed. Her eyes are open but she won’t say anything.”

Chapter 4

“But—what were you doing in her bedroom?” I stammered. I had no clue what was going on.

“Sh-she called extension seven and asked me to bring her some water. She said she didn’t feel well and couldn’t get it herself.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, hurrying toward her. “What’s your name?”

“Laura. Laura Ash.”

“Okay, Laura, calm down. Let me see what’s going on.”

There was a lamp burning on a bedside table, and when I stepped into the room I saw that Devon was lying on her back in bed, the duvet kicked to the floor. The top sheet was pulled up just to her waist, revealing her naked torso and small, delicate breasts. I moved closer, and when I saw her eyes, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Her eyes were wide open, totally blank, and slightly faded.

“Devon,” I called. “Devon, talk to me.”

Instinctively I grabbed Devon’s shoulder to shake her, and when I touched her skin I found that it was a little bit cool, like a piece of porcelain. Frantically I fumbled for her wrist and took her pulse. Nothing. I felt a tremble through my whole body. Devon Barr was dead.

I spun around toward the door, where Laura was standing, peering into the room and looking helpless. “I’m confused,” I told her. “When did Devon call you?”

“Why?”

“Just tell me, Laura.” Based on the temperature of the body, it was impossible that Devon had just made a phone call.

Laura lowered her eyes, like a dog in trouble.

“About an hour and a half ago,” she muttered.

“What? You mean at like one fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“Where have you been all this time?”

“In one of the bedrooms above the garage. After she asked me to bring the water, I planned to, really, but I was already in bed and before I could get up, I—I fell back asleep.”

“So you woke up about an hour and a half later and decided to just traipse up here?”

“No. Uh, she called again.”

“You mean just before you came up here? That’s impossible.”

“Well, I thought it was her,” she said, her voice quivering now. “The phone rang. By the time I answered, there was no one there. I just assumed it was her calling to see where I was, and I hurried up here. I didn’t realize how much time had passed.”

“Okay, I need you to go wake Scott. Tell him he has to come over here right away.” By the look on her face, you would have thought I had told her that a spaceship full of Martians had just landed and we needed to start tearing ass through the woods. “Laura—” She was starting to work my last nerve.

“But I think he’s with that girl. Your friend.”

“That’s okay. Just knock hard and tell him it’s an emergency and he has to come to Devon’s room.”

“What should I tell Scott? That she passed out?”

“No, she’s dead.”

“Dead? Omigod.”

“You’ve got to wake Scott, Laura. Just please hurry up, okay?”

I could have gone myself to fetch Scott, but I didn’t want to leave Laura in charge of the scene—and to be honest, I wanted a chance to look around.

After Laura stumbled off, I glanced back down at Devon’s body. Within hours the luminescent skin would turn waxy, her limbs would stiffen, and the face that had made a fortune would begin to sag. She had seemed like a bitch on wheels, totally self-absorbed, but I couldn’t help but feel rocked and saddened by her death. She was so young, so beautiful—and, as it turned out, so talented, too.

How had she died, I wondered? The first word that flashed in my mind for some reason was overdose—maybe because she’d had a rocker boyfriend. I glanced toward the bedside table to the right of the bed. Besides the phone, there was an empty water bottle, an iPod, an iPhone, a tin of lip balm, a crushed pack of cigarettes, and a saucer piled with butts.

But just because there was no sign of drugs didn’t mean she hadn’t taken something or even shot it up, and she’d been wobbly when she’d left dinner. But suddenly a memory rushed my mind: Devon in the woods this morning, crying and saying she wasn’t safe. I ran my eyes over her body. There were no visible bruises on her neck or torso—and no blood on the sheets.

What I did see as I stared at her naked torso was how thin she really was. Beneath her breasts, the outline of almost every rib was apparent. Several models had suffered heart attacks in recent years as a result of anorexia. Was that how Devon Barr had died? I wondered. Certainly being intoxicated tonight would have only complicated matters.

Until an autopsy was conducted, the police would treat her death as suspicious. Both a police crime scene unit and the local coroner would be brought in to check out the room. I had no right to snoop around, and I certainly wasn’t going to do anything to muck up the scene, but there was no harm in letting my eyes continue to wander.

The bedroom was similar to mine—spacious, with a small separate sitting area at the far end—though decorated differently, in blues and greens. There were wads of clothes scattered on not only the chair and loveseat but also the floor.

As my eyes scanned the room, they finally reached the darkened doorway to the bathroom. I took a few careful steps in that direction. When I reached the door, I tugged the sleeve of my pajamas down over my hand and, after a couple of moments of fumbling, flipped on the light switch. If Devon had been doing drugs, there might be evidence in here.

The bathroom was a mess. There were black suede boots lying limply on the floor along with the cream- colored blouse she’d worn at dinner and two damp bath towels. Cosmetics littered the counter surrounding the sink, as if she’d simply upended her makeup bag. Mixed among them were used Q-tips and cotton balls, a tube of Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream Skin Protectant, and different lotions and creams—plus another empty water bottle. Without moving my feet, I leaned forward and squinted at the bottles and tubes. No sign of drugs. But something else of interest. Standing among them was a small brown bottle of syrup of ipecac. I hadn’t seen that stuff in years.

Syrup of ipecac, I knew, induced vomiting, something I learned when I was reporting an accidental poisoning story for the Albany Times Union. Parents were once encouraged to store it in their